by Brand, Max
Right on the heels of that came an explosion that made the mail coach rock, and a thin cloud of smoke puffed far out through the open doors.
CHAPTER XXIII
Riders from Town
CHRISTIAN was first through the doors of the mail coach again. His shout of triumph told Naylor everything that he needed to know. The safe had been cracked, and the rest of this business would soon be finished. But where was Jim Silver, and where were the men from Elsinore that the boy on the fast-galloping mustang must have roused long before this?
A horse was brought up to the side of the mail coach, and Christian and the other men inside the car began to hand out hastily filled small saddlebags which were rapidly tied onto the horse. The thing was ended in another minute. Christian jumped down and whistled three quick notes.
“Fall in! Fall in!” he called in his great voice.
If any of the passengers on the train had ever heard that voice before, how could they fail to recognize now the powerful, ringing notes of it?
There was a quick scampering. The passengers had been disarmed, of course, as they were searched, and there was little danger that they would open fire as the retreat began. All that happened as the outlaws rushed to their horses was that one of the women who had fainted sat up suddenly and broke into hysterical laughter. She was a big, fat woman, and she laughed so convulsively that her hat jerked off her head and her gray hair tumbled down over her shoulders. She kept on laughing, on a higher and a higher note. It was strange the distance at which that laughter still followed in the ears of Naylor as he rode away with the rest of the gang.
It seemed to him a mockery of all that had been accomplished on this day.
Cassidy rode up beside him as he took off his hood.
“They say there’s more than the three hundred and fifty thousand. They say there’s nearly half a million taken out of that safe!” said Cassidy. “It takes Barry Christian to plan a scoop and then make it.”
Naylor heard the words, but the meaning did not register deeply in his mind. Nothing mattered very much to him except the picture of how Dick Penny had stood up to die. As for the money — well, money cannot teach a man how to die. It can’t do much of anything for you. You can’t eat gold. And as for enough clothes to stand up in and enough food to eat — well, any fool can get those things by working honestly with the hands.
Who need be afraid of work?
He kept thinking along those lines while he jogged his horse in the middle of the crowd.
“That fellow Mike,” he said to Cassidy. “Think that he’ll pull through?”
“I saw where the bullet socked him and where it came out. He’s got a good chance,” said Cassidy. “But what d’you care?”
“Well,” said Naylor, “it just makes the difference between robbery and murder.”
Cassidy stared at him.
“Are you weakening, Naylor?” he demanded harshly.
And suddenly he reined his horse away, as though he were too disgusted by the last remark to remain any longer in the company of the man who had made it.
They got out of the narrows of the valley and onto the rolling uplands beyond, with Barry Christian keeping the pace down to a steady trot. That pace would conserve the strength of the horses, and if a posse from Elsinore came at them, probably the men from the latter town would have ridden most of the wind out of their mounts before they came in sight. But what man, other than Barry Christian, would have had the nerve to keep to such a moderate gait instead of trying to speed away for shelter among the higher mountains?
Gravely and bitterly, Naylor admired the outlaw chief. And yet, even at this minute he hardly regretted that he was no longer one of Christian’s tried and chosen few. He was back in the ruck, part of the rank and the file. He noticed, too, that Christian was not leading the horse that carried the treasure. Instead, the horse was being conducted by Duff Gregor, whose fine thoroughbred chestnut stallion, stained to resemble Parade, was dancing lightly over the ground.
They had gone so far from the scene of the robbery that it seemed to Naylor that the late affair was sifting down into his past, joining many old memories that were dim under the sea of time, when the voice of Cassidy yelled:
“They’re coming! They’re coming!”
He looked back, and through a cleft among the hills behind them Naylor saw a slowly rising cloud of dust. It streamed toward them. He could make out little figures that moved under the cloud of the dust.
There was an irregular checking and spurring of horses. Then the calm voice of Barry Christian called:
“All right, boys. This is what we expected. Every man steady, now. Get the horses into a lope and keep ‘em there. I’ve got a half-million-dollar flag here, and I know I can trust you fellows to rally around it!”
Of course, that was true, and a very neat effect it made to see that horse which was burdened with nothing but the stolen treasure. Not a man was apt to fall away from the party before receiving his split of the loot.
They went off steadily enough, riding at the lope, the pace for which was set by Barry Christian. And, looking over his little band, Naylor remembered the evening not so many weeks before when he had smoked at the side of the Kendal Falls and had seen the body of the drowning man swept headlong down the current. Then, by a gesture — rather, by the lack of a gesture-he could have prevented all of this. He could have let Barry Christian pass on to the doom he deserved. Instead, he had chosen to pull him back to safety, and so he had managed to undo how much of the good work of Jim Silver?
Conscience was not a keenly developed portion of the soul of Naylor, but something like it was being tormented now!
They kept on at the steady pace until they had risen well up on a higher tide of hills, and at that point Christian fell to the rear and ordered the others to continue steadily toward a point which he had marked out.
Then, taking up his post on the brow of the hill, Christian drew out a strong field glass and peered down at the lower ground over which the pursuit was sweeping. He remained for some time conducting his examination. In the meantime, as the fleeing riders climbed a still higher slope, Bill Naylor in turn twisted in the saddle, let his horse go a little distance at a walk, and peered with straining eyes at the lower plain.
The pursuers were far closer than they had been a little time before. They came on with a determined rush, and the size of the dust cloud seemed to indicate more than a hundred riders in the lot. That, however, was too large a guess, for as a gust of wind cleared the dust suddenly away, Naylor was able to estimate the situation at a glance.
There were fully fifty men riding to the front, more or less stretched out in a loose formation, according to the strength of their mustangs and their skill as riders. And, a little distance behind them, held in a close herd by several other riders, appeared a sweeping mass of perhaps threescore unsaddled horses.
Fear that had remained far back in the mind of Naylor until this moment, now suddenly leaped up right into his throat. With so many remounts, the men of Elsinore would surely have an excellent chance of riding down Christian’s party. But, more than all else, to make the picture significant, there was sight of a man in the lead of all the rest, and the horse he rode on flashed like gold, even from the distance.
That was Jim Silver and Parade.
CHAPTER XXIV
Christian’s Scheme
THE news which Barry Christian now carried up to the party, riding at a sweeping gallop, was already clear in the mind of Naylor, of course; but he wondered vaguely how the chief would communicate the bad tidings. Surely he would hardly dare to reveal the worst! But perhaps others, though they had not lingered behind like Naylor, might have seen the dust cloud lift.
At any rate, Christian, rising in his stirrups, shouted in a loud voice:
“Boys, Jim Silver and the Elsinore men are coming like wild Indians. They’ve got a whole drove of remounts with them, and they’re going to run us down before the day’s over.”
He made a pause. Cassidy’s snarling, barking voice called in answer:
“Split up the loot now and we’ll all scatter!”
“Is there time to split up the loot?” demanded Christian. “Before we can sort that stuff Silver will be right on top of us. No, we’ve got to stick together. But I have an idea of a way to beat them still. Boys, we’re going to head straight for Benton Corner!”
A shout of dismay and confused doubt answered this suggestion. But Christian went on:
“We’ve got the double of Jim Silver with us, and I know how we can use him. Friends, we’ll go right into Benton Corner. On the way there, some of you sling an arm; some more of you get a bandage tied around your heads or legs. A few little spots of blood here and there will make it look as though we’ve been under fire sure enough. When we get into Benton Corner, Duff Gregor will shout out the news that Barry Christian is on the loose again, that he’s raised a mob of fifty men, that he’s heading straight for Benton Corner to shoot up the town, that he — Jim Silver — has tried to stop the rush and failed. He’ll call for volunteers to go out and meet the men of Barry Christian.
“You understand? When the Benton Corner men hear that, they’ll turn out, every soul of ‘em, and while they ride back to smash the charge, the rest of us will slip away through the town, scattering right and left through the alleys and the lanes. We’ll come out and rejoin on the farther side. Understand? And we’ll leave the Benton Corner and the Elsinore men fighting like fools too far away from one another to make out the truth!”
It took a moment for the details of the plan to penetrate the minds of the outlaws. But when they realized, they raised for big Barry Christian only such a shout as despairing men can lift in honor of a chief who promises them their lives. They yelled. They stood up in their stirrups and swung their hats and cheered for Christian. And Duff Gregor galloped to the side of Barry Christian to receive the final instructions before the town of Benton Corner was reached.
It was a neat idea. It might very well work, unless there happened to be in Benton Corner men cool-headed enough to realize that Jim Silver — the real Jim Silver-was hardly the sort of fellow to retire at a gallop even in the face of danger of odds of four to one. Unless, also, there happened to be some one who knew intimately the face of Silver and the figure of the great Parade.
What a man was Barry Christian! No wonder that the cream of the criminal brains of the West was eager to follow him wherever he might lead.
Then the thought of Naylor turned back to Jim Silver, riding with the men of Elsinore on behalf of the law. No doubt, close to him rode that slender panther of a man with the pale, bright eyes — Taxi. Those two alone might be strong enough to wreck all the forces of the great Christian. It seemed to Naylor a battle of supermen — and he was a useless force in the encounter.
They turned straight for the town of Benton Corner, and as they journeyed through the heightening hills, the dust cloud behind them crept closer and closer, now working up to them with a continual sweep which made it clear that Silver had mounted his men on the reserve horses, and that he had determined to have the hounds of the law on the traces of the desperadoes before long.
No doubt he had not even stopped to make inquiries at the train that had been robbed. In the distance he would be able to see the big train standing with no smoke yet rising out of the stack. That sight, near the spot which the boy must have reported, would have been enough to tell him what had happened — that, and the gradually diminishing head of a cloud of dust in the distance.
Benton Corner, that must be the salvation of the fugitives, now heaved into view, perched between two hills, with the upper mountains just beyond it, and with the eternal smoke of the great smelter rising above it in an entangling mist that seemed to keep the little town drab and gray even in the midst of this beautiful weather.
There was not much wastage of paint in Benton Corner. It was a workaday town, and the houses in it were the color of decaying, weather-rotted canvas. There were no trees rising over it. There was no sense of pleasure in life when it was viewed from a distance or close up. Into Benton Corner swept the rout of the Barry Christian gang.
The orders of Barry Christian himself had been put into execution faithfully. There appeared three men with bloodstained bandages around their heads. Two others carried one arm in a sling. There was a leg bandage here and there — and always there was the spot of red blood.
A desperate appearance they presented as they galloped through the streets of the town.
Here Duff Gregor became suddenly the most important man of the lot. Barry Christian himself had a face almost covered by a great bandage that must suggest itself to some observers as being useful as a mask as well as a protection to an injury. And Duff Gregor, his part already well rehearsed, and his brain crammed with words learned from Barry Christian, galloped before the rest on that beautiful, commanding figure of the chestnut thoroughbred.
As he went he shouted loudly, drawing rein a little. Behind him came the bandaged, the sweating, dusty, grim band of fighters. And as he galloped, Duff Gregor was yelling.
“Barry Christian’s come back to life! Barry Christians on the go! He’s back there with fifty desperadoes. Any fighting men in Benton Corner?”
Any fighting men in Benton Corner? Well, there were no other sort of men in the town, truth to tell. And they swarmed out from lodging houses, from saloons. They broke up the groups which they had formed at corners, idling, and they bolted for their horses. At every hitch rack stood tough mustangs, saddled and ready for action, and here and there in groups there were men tougher than the horseflesh they used. No man had to wait to get a gun. Weapons they carried under their coats or belted around their thighs, or else they had long-barreled repeating Winchesters thrust deep in the saddle holsters, waiting to be used.
Fighting men in Benton Corner? Why, the whole town rose up, shouting, and started a dust cloud rolling out toward the direction from which, according to Duff Gregor, the danger was sweeping toward the town.
What amazed Bill Naylor most of all was the devotion, the veritable joy of these men when they saw that made-up figure of Duff Gregor and cheered him under the name of Jim Silver.
That name was always, on all sides, beating through the air. “Silver!” “Silver!” “Parade!” “Jim Silver and Parade!” they yelled as Duff Gregor went by, never pausing long, and always shouting out his warning, and then dashing on before men had a full chance to center their eyes on him and criticize the truth of his appearance.
There was one great fault in the performance — Jim Silver, the real Jim Silver, would hardly come plunging into a town like this, shouting for help, but — well, what Westerner would be critical? The very name of Jim Silver was enough to put all criticism to sleep and leave, in the place of logical, reasoning brains, a frenzy of hope and courage and excitement.
Benton Corner sent out its men like a cloud of dust that winged off through the hills to find the bloodthirsty followers of “Barry Christian.” And this false “Jim Silver,” who was expected, of course, to turn behind the recruits and rally the forces of battle outside the town?
Well, that “Jim Silver,” like the rest of the rascals who were with him, turned aside and sneaked down a side street after he had seen the rush of fighting men start for the scene of conflict. Down alleys and by lanes they rode. One small boy, as Naylor would never forget, ran out in front yard and yelled at him: “That’s the wrong way! Jim Silver wants you back there! Back there!”
Naylor jogged his mustang on its way. And the boy ran out into the street behind him and screamed:
“Coward! Coward! Jim Silver wants you!”
What a man, thought Naylor, if he could put himself inside the minds of the boys of the community in this fashion!
But, after all, the youngster was right. That was where all the honest and brave men belonged — back there, helping Jim Silver, among the hills.
Before Naylor came out on t
he farther side of Benton Corner he could hear the distant sound of rifle fire from the other side of the town. And he knew that they were at it. Honest men against honest men, shooting to kill, one side led by the invincible name of the great Jim Silver, and the other side led by Jim Silver himself!
What a thing it was to divide a man against himself and use his famous reputation to destroy him, as Barry Christian was using Jim Silver now!
In the meantime, the other members of the gang had come sifting through the town. They were gathering together again, in a string, as a wedge of ducks might be scattered by gunfire when they fly near the ground, but reform again in the sky, after a short distance. That was what had happened with the Christian outfit. Here they were again, at the mouth of a great ravine that cleaved through the mountains as though they had been ripped apart by a gigantic plow.
Every man of them had reassembled, except Dick Penny. He was gone forever to another sort of a meeting, and another sort of a meeting place; there were only twelve men, counting the great Christian himself, who entered the mouth of the ravine in a group — and one of them was leading the treasure horse!
It seemed incredible! They could not, ordinarily, have dared to come close to any town, fugitives as they were from justice. Only the brilliance of Barry Christian had enabled them not only to pass through the town in safety, but to make of the law-abiding men in Benton Corner a filter through which what dangers could flow toward them?
Far in the distance they heard the faint clattering of the rifle fire only gradually dying away!
It seemed to Naylor that the back of Barry Christian was a little straighter. Certainly he had proved as almost never before in his famous career what a right he had to be called a lord of men. All his men were laughing, and they were slapping on the back Duff Gregor, who had just saved their hides! He was laughing most of all, that Judas whose life had been spared by the mercy of the great, the true, the honest Jim Silver!
